


False King

by xcrstfallenstrx



Category: The Shannara Chronicles (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcrstfallenstrx/pseuds/xcrstfallenstrx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Allanon and Ander were lovers, but Allanon disappeared after the War of the Races.  It’s been twenty years, and Allanon has finally returned, but there are dark days ahead.  Ander has spent the last twenty years buried in anger, loss, doubt and booze, and is too angry to forgive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Calling

**Author's Note:**

> The video that inspired this FF can be found here:  
>  [Allanon Ander SLASH - Allander - False King](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_d4qtC3ofoU)
> 
> All my videos for this pairing can be found here:  
>  [My Allander Collection](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_d4qtC3ofoU&list=PLu6cxfqCMO9mnMNCH-pE-0tfPsLXorJwZ)
> 
> **Please note: I have not in fact abandoned this story. It's been a while since I've updated, but I've been obsessed with these two as an AU ship that I have been vidding on yt, so now they are Commodus and Crixus in my brain. I even tried rewatching the first season, twice. I really need the second season to start airing so I can get back to seeing them in this verse. The second season starts after they reair season 1. That starts June 29th. But I will finish this fic.**
> 
> I fell in love with this pairing, and the show. I made a video since their chemistry is just so lovely on screen, and since originally it was only going to be a video canon didn't matter much. However, upon discovering that there was virtually no ff for this pairing, I decided to use that video as inspiration for an ff. This has created logistical issues, so in the notes section I’ll be listing any changes I make to the canon for this story. It may change chapter to chapter, so check back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon Changes:  
> 1) I haven’t read the books, so I’m not sure how the aging works for the elves in this series, so when I made the video that inspired this ff, I was of the opinion that they aged slowly, but aren’t immortal.  
> 2) The War of the Races was only 20 years ago instead of 30. I wanted it to stay at 30, but that created serious logistical issues with Amberle’s age.  
> 3) The scene with Aine’s death is really poignant but I’m going to say that he died in the War of the Races. At this time Amberle would have only been 2, so no close bond with him in this story.  
> 4) During the War of the Races Arion, who is 25, was away from Arborlon training, and Ander would have been 20, but was not allowed to participate in the war. Big brother’s orders. Ander and Aine had a very close bond from what the show has told us so far.  
> 5) I assume the War of the Races was a battle between good and evil as Allanon tells Wil that his father is the only reason the world didn’t fall into shadow 30 years ago, and Eventine refers to a ‘Warlock Lord’. If that’s the case it never made much sense to me that it was called ‘The War of the Races’. So for this story, it really will be a war between the races, and means that Aine can still die at the hands of the Gnomes, and a Warlock Lord was the leader of the rebellion.  
> 6) After the changeling uses Arion to kill Allanon, Ander uses Slanter to find the demons, it no longer happens while he is away.

His footsteps were loud to his overly sensitive ears as he made his way down the long hallway towards the throne room. His senses were still buzzing from over-stimulation, his nerves raw from disuse. He could feel the air passing over his skin as he moved; could smell the plants growing in the walls at the other end of the hall. He allowed his hood to sink lower over his eyes; the glare of the sun on the white stones beneath his feet made them burn.

He needed access to The Sanctuary. The Ellcrys had called to him, waking him from the druid’s sleep. How long had he slept? Had his magic been so depleted? How much had the world changed? How much had he missed? _How many stolen moments did you sacrifice_ , a small piece of him, the only part that was still a man and not consumed by the calling, asked.

The halls looked just as he remembered them. Long days spent in the archives with Pyria searching out the lost sons of Shannara, and nights spent outmaneuvering the Black Watch from the hidden western entrance to the royal wing had left Arborlon indelibly etched in his memory. He could walk these halls blind folded.

A guard stepped into his path, but with an infinitesimal dab of magic in his palm, he removed the obstacle. A burst of wind slammed forward and knocked the guard down the hall and into the wall leaving him unconscious. There were dark days ahead, of that he had no doubt. He had no time for dalliances or distractions.

When he stepped into the throne room it too was just as he remembered though the man who sat upon the throne had more gray in his hair, his eyes were as sharp as ever. Eventine was an elf not to be taken lightly. “The Ellcrys is more than just a tree. I can assure you of that, boy,” he said by way of introduction. He had no need of formalities.

When he pulled back his hood a nearly inaudible intake of breath came from his right. To anyone else it would have been silent, but with his senses in overdrive as they were it may as well have been a gasp. He’d known from the moment he had walked into the room. The scent was unmistakable. His scent was unmistakable.

He strained to keep eye contact with Eventine, but was losing the battle. The compulsion was too strong. It was no more in his control then the call to slumber that had taken him away from Arborlon in the first place. The druid in him was a slave to the calling, but the man, now that was a different story entirely.

He glanced to the right and eyes as blue as the clearest lagoon starred back at him. He nearly forgot himself, pressing his right arm tighter to his chest to prevent him from reaching out. He had been gone far too long. The smooth face he remembered was replaced by one with laugh lines around the eyes and mouth, and some speckling under the eyes.

Time had changed Ander, but not for the worse. If anything, he was more beautiful now than the first time he had seen him in the Archives on tip-toe reaching for a book that was just a few inches out of reach. He had barely left boyhood behind then, but now he had grown into his long limbs, his shoulders broader, his face fuller, and his eyes wiser. Life had etched strength of character into his face. He’d become a man.

Finding himself again, he embraced his old friend and said, “I have been called by the Ellcrys. I must go to The Sanctuary immediately.”

A man he could only assume to be Arion, Eventine’s second, stepped between them and said, “If you really are a druid, prove it. Show us some magic.”

Both Eventine and Ander knew the truth, so he had nothing to prove to this whelp. His smile was cynical when he replied, “I don’t do tricks, boy.” With one last glance at Ander, he left for The Sanctuary.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arion took off after Allanon the second their father would allow, the council and his father trickled out behind him at a less determined pace. He was the last to leave the throne room. He had always assumed that his father was right. That the last druid of Paranor had died in the War of the Races twenty years ago.

Twenty.

The War of the Races had taken everything from him. The man he loved, and the person he held most dear to him, his oldest brother, Aine. He’d lost himself in wine after that, the distance between him and his father and Arion growing larger with each passing year. It had only made him more determined to protect Amberle, and just like with her father Aine, their bond was unwavering, but she was gone now too. She was out of his reach and he could do nothing but hope she would return to him safely.

He watched Allanon run his fingers over The Ellcrys in amazement. He hadn’t aged a single day. It had been twenty years, but he looked exactly the same as he did that day in the archive when someone had reached over his head and pulled down the book he had been trying to grab. He’d turned to find Allanon watching him closely and holding the book out for him.

It was the way Allanon looked at you that he remembered the most. When he looked at you, it seemed as if you were the only person in the room, and there was nowhere else he’d rather be. His attention focused on you completely with an intensity that would make even the toughest men pause. He knew now that it was because he was always reading people’s minds, assessing them.

As the youngest of the king’s children he had been used to being overlooked. Aine was the future king, and Arion was the best swordsman of Eventine’s three sons, so was expected to be the commander of the Black Watch and the elven army. The king needed an heir and a spare. That left little room for him to take any praise for himself. Allanon had been the first person to really look at him, and not passed him.

When Allanon’s penetrating gaze had become too much, he’d looked away, uncomfortable. Allanon had said, _‘In a room full of one hundred men, I’d see no one but you’_ , then he’d closed the book in his right hand and walked away. He had stood there dumbfounded for a long time clutching the book, his heart pounding.

“It’s much worse than I thought. The Ellcrys is dying,” Allanon told them, his face grave. “You need to mobilize the elven army.”

“We all know that the story of The Ellcrys is just a fairytale. Father, you’re not actually listening to this, are you?” Arion asked in disbelief.

“You’ve allowed him to believe this when you know the opposite to be true,” Allanon said to Eventine. He could read the disappointment in his eyes. Allanon had walked this Earth longer than any elf. He was a man of few words, and even less posturing. If he said the story of The Ellcrys was true, then it was. If they didn’t save The Ellcrys, they were all in great danger.

“After the war of the races, I believed that magic had disappeared along with you and the warlock lord,” his father replied.

“Well then you tell that to your people when the fairytales are ripping out their throats!” Allanon paused briefly to look him in the eye, his message clear, this threat is real, and then pushed passed him, his pace brisk. He’d seen Allanon with that set to his shoulders only once before, the morning of the final battle of the War of the Races. It had been the only time Allanon had stayed the whole night, and he had promised he would return.

He hadn’t.

Believing Allanon had died had nearly broken him, especially after they had found his brothers body, but now… knowing that he had chosen to leave took him back to those days. For a time, Eventine had tried to reach him, believing his despair was due simply to the loss of his brother, his father’s favored son. No one, not even Pyria, had known about his relationship with Allanon, so he had shouldered the burden of his loss alone. Once she was gone no one had ever spoken Allanon’s name aloud again. It wasn’t until a few years later that he knew why.

Just as enigmatically as he had arrived, Allanon was gone, without so much as a word, again.

He retired to his chambers and found bliss in a bottle.

Again.


	2. Pyria

_I can’t believe this is the Shannara I’ve been dealt_ , he thought for the umpteenth time since meeting Wil Ohmsford as he watched him make his way in the direction of the princess’ chambers. How it was possible that Shea and this boy were related he’d never understand. For all their sakes he hoped the boy was strong enough to walk the path his destiny had set forth before him.

He needed to find Eventine, and suspected he’d be in The Sanctuary with The Ellcrys. As he made his way there a thump in the dining room caught his attention. He thought better of it when he realized the source of the sound, but he was here now, “Ander?” he called, but he received no response.

He stepped further into the room and tried again, “Ander.”

When Ander turned his eyes were bloodshot and he was unsteady on his feet. _Unbelievable_ , he thought with an imperceptible shake of his head. They were facing the greatest threat to the four lands in a thousand years, yet here he was, uncaring, bottle and goblet in hand. “You’re drunk.”

“Pfpt. Ooh! You really are magic. Did you have to read my mind to figure that one out?” he asked as he pulled out the closest chair. He hadn’t dared to read Ander’s thoughts since he’d returned. That was a poison pit he didn’t have the luxury of time to navigate right now. Too much was at stake. “No?” Ander asked “Well then let me fill you in. Fuck. Off.”

He watched Ander pour another glass and debated whether or not this was the time. Ander it seemed had made the choice for him because he said, “What are you even doing here anyway? Why don’t you crawl back into whatever hole you’ve been hiding in for the last twenty years?”

“I had no choice but to leave,” he said.  
“No choice, right,” Ander replied, “Just go, Allanon.”

“After the war my magic was depleted,” he explained. Nothing he could say or do would take away the last twenty years, he knew that, but regardless, Ander deserved an explanation. “I was called to the Druid’s sleep, a deep hibernation that restored my magic.”

“You abandoned me to mourn the loss of you and my brother both without so much as a goodbye, and what? Slept?” Ander asked, incredulous.

“When the sleep calls, there is no time for goodbyes. Being a druid is not a choice. It’s a calling.” If there had been any way for him to stay, he would have. “You will never know how sorry I am or how much you still mean to me,” he said.

“I’m supposed to believe that?” Ander asked as he dropped into the chair next to him. “We always have a choice,” he said as he poured another goblet of wine, “and just like everyone else, you didn’t choose me,” he finished softly as he raised the cup to his lips. It never made it, because he knocked the glass out of Ander’s hand, and he jumped to his feet indignant.

They stood eye to eye and chest to chest. In this moment Ander was exceptional; his eyes had the barest hint of tears, making them even more ethereal. His bottom lip was fuller then normal from him nibbling on it, a sure sign he had been feeling anxious the last few days. It was an endearing habit that he was very familiar with and had always loved.

“I chose you every time I went to the archive, even though I had all the information I needed to find the sons of Shannara, hoping for even a small glimpse of you,” he said. “I chose you every night I snuck past the Black Watch to see you. I chose you every time I risked being discovered by Aine knowing one day he would surely see the truth in my eyes.”

Ander, said nothing. He didn’t expect to be forgiven so easily, but to receive no reaction at all, was not what he expected, especially given how combative he’d been only moments before. He didn’t dare read his mind now, he’d already hurt Ander enough. He wouldn’t violate what little trust might be left.

“If I had the ability to ignore the calling I would have died hundreds of years ago, and we never would have met,” he finished, leaving Ander alone to think on everything he had said. He still needed to find Eventine. He couldn’t allow himself to be so distracted right now, but he could no more ignore the longing in his heart, then he could ignore the magic that coursed through his veins.

As he had assumed, Eventine was in The Sanctuary. “Times are dark indeed, my old friend,” Eventine said when he walked in behind him.

“That they are,” he replied returning his embrace. _For some more than others_ , he thought.

Not only did he have to set Amberle and Wil on the right path, he had to find an assassin hidden amongst them, prepare the elves for a war with demons they didn’t believe in, and subdue Arion. Impudent brat that he was, he remained heir to the throne, and was becoming a problem. He kept trying to lead Eventine astray, and that was something he couldn’t allow. They couldn’t afford to be divided now.

Add to that the obvious turmoil Ander was in, which he desperately wanted to heal, and well… his plate was full. He was only one man, a druid maybe, but still just one man.

“I think I know where Amberle is hiding,” Wil said as he was escorted into the room by Commander Tilton. “She’s with someone named Pyria.”

“Pyria,” Eventine said the shock clear in his voice, “No one has talked to my sister in years.”

“Not according to these,” Wil said. “Amberle has been writing to her. I found these letters hidden in her room,” Wil told them, holding out the letters for the king.

“Why would the Princess need to write to her aunt in secret?” he asked.

“We had a falling out many years ago. She fell in love with a human and when she asked for my blessing, I refused,” Eventine replied.

“Because she didn’t love an elf?” Wil asked.  
“Because she loved you Allanon,” Eventine replied.  
“I thought that she understood that there was no future for us,” he said softly.  
“Evidently she didn’t,” the king said.

He hadn’t told her that he was in love with her nephew, but he had told her that he didn’t return her affections. She had been upset, but he had been sure that she understood. What had transpired to send her to Eventine for his blessing? Perhaps he had been too kind. He did care for her, just not in the way she wished.

This… was another complication.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He watched Allanon and Wil ride out for Winghove, from his balcony, starring after them long after they were out of view. He hadn’t drunk another drop after Allanon had left him alone with his thoughts, but he still felt the lingering effects this morning. He felt confused, and it wasn’t from the fog of too much wine.

Things were changing so quickly he couldn’t possibly keep up. For twenty years Allanon was dead, or may as well have been. Then he came back, and the obvious conclusion was that he had left by choice. That had sent him spiraling back to that night, twenty years ago. He had waited for Allanon. The war was over, and they had survived. He’d waited all night, candle lit, but he’d never come. He’d watched the candle slowly burn down to nothing, and with it, his hope.

After that he had slowly made his way to the throne room dreading what news he might hear about Allanon, but no one, it seemed, had seen him after the warlock lord fell. Certainly, if Allanon had lived, he would have come to his chamber as he had so many nights before, to take pleasure in each other’s bodies, to talk, or to simply be together. The conclusion had seemed obvious.

A few hours later the news of Aine’s death had made its way to his chamber. He had never felt so alone. He had lost everything in one night. His heart wanted vengeance, it simmered inside him, and like a pot overfull, the bitter flavor flooded every part of him. There was no one left to slake his thirst for blood, they were already dead. It left him feeling hollow; it was a depthless chasm that could never be filled.

He’d tried to fill it with wine and women, never men, that was something that belonged to Allanon, and he would never give it to another, but the cavern remained. Knowing his father wished it had been him instead of Aine didn’t make it any easier. Every day he wished the same thing; that it had been him instead of Aine, but Aine had kept him far from the field of battle despite his desire to fight for his king.

 _‘I know you think you have to prove yourself to Father, baby brother’_ , he had said, _‘but you don’t. He loves you, he does, he just… doesn’t know how to show it’_. It was the one thing his brother had denied him, and somewhere deep inside himself he believed that if he had been there that day, he could have saved Aine somehow. It may be foolish to believe that he could have saved him, untested in battle as had been, but it didn’t change how he felt.

He tried to be there for Amberle, but ultimately, she would have been better off with her father. His father had lost his heir and was now left with Arion. Arion’s desire for the throne was muddled with ambition and arrogance. A king needed to be confident to instill conviction in his subjects, but he was confident to the point of conceit. He wasn’t worthy of the weight of the crown. All of Arborlon would have been better served if he had died that day instead of Aine, and he carried the weight of that knowledge like a bag of flagstones on his chest.

He had finally started to feel normal again. Like the hole inside him wouldn’t someday grow so large it would swallow him whole. Then Allanon strides into the throne room like not a day has passed looking as virile as he had the last time they saw each other. It was like his heart had started to beat again only to have someone stick a dagger right in the center.

He didn’t know what to believe anymore. Allanon had said he had no choice, that there had been no time to say goodbye, but how could that be possible? Pyria had asked for the king’s blessing. He’d always known that she loved Allanon, but believed her feelings were unrequited. If that was the case, why would she have asked for the king’s blessing?

It was all too much to think about. The four lands could come to an end in a matter of days. He shouldn’t be so preoccupied by Allanon. If they all died, everything that had happened wouldn’t even matter. He had stood on this balcony all day when he should have been at his father’s side. It was where he needed to be. Arion had his father’s ear, and though his word meant little, he had to try to keep his father on the right path. Though Allanon had hurt him, he would not lead them astray, of that he was certain.

He missed Aine.

Now more than ever.

He needed a friend.


End file.
